One of the main purposes of Plato in the Phaedrus is to satirize
Rhetoric, or rather the Professors of Rhetoric who swarmed at Athens in
the fourth century before Christ. As in the opening of the Dialogue he
ridicules the interpreters of mythology; as in the Protagoras he mocks
at the Sophists; as in the Euthydemus he makes fun of the word-splitting
Eristics; as in the Cratylus he ridicules the fancies of Etymologers;
as in the Meno and Gorgias and some other dialogues he makes reflections
and casts sly imputation upon the higher classes at Athens; so in
the Phaedrus, chiefly in the latter part, he aims his shafts at the
rhetoricians. The profession of rhetoric was the greatest and most
popular in Athens, necessary 'to a man's salvation,' or at any rate to
his attainment of wealth or power; but Plato finds nothing wholesome
or genuine in the purpose of it. It is a veritable 'sham,' having no
relation to fact, or to truth of any kind. It is antipathetic to him not
only as a philosopher, but also as a great writer. He cannot abide the
tricks of the rhetoricians, or the pedantries and mannerisms which they
introduce into speech and writing. He sees clearly how far removed they
are from the ways of simplicity and truth, and how ignorant of the very
elements of the art which they are professing to teach. The thing which
is most necessary of all, the knowledge of human nature, is hardly if
at all considered by them. The true rules of composition, which are
very few, are not to be found in their voluminous systems. Their
pretentiousness, their omniscience, their large fortunes, their
impatience of argument, their indifference to first principles, their
stupidity, their progresses through Hellas accompanied by a troop
of their disciples--these things were very distasteful to Plato, who
esteemed genius far above art, and was quite sensible of the interval
which separated them (Phaedrus). It is the interval which separates
Sophists and rhetoricians from ancient famous men and women such as
Homer and Hesiod, Anacreon and Sappho, Aeschylus and Sophocles; and the
Platonic Socrates is afraid that, if he approves the former, he will be
disowned by the latter. The spirit of rhetoric was soon to overspread
all Hellas; and Plato with prophetic insight may have seen, from afar,
the great literary waste or dead level, or interminable marsh, in which
Greek literature was soon to disappear. A similar vision of the decline
of the Greek drama and of the contrast of the old literature and the
new was present to the mind of Aristophanes after the death of the three
great tragedians (Frogs). After about a hundred, or at most two hundred
years if we exclude Homer, the genius of Hellas had ceased to flower or
blossom. The dreary waste which follows, beginning with the Alexandrian
writers and even before them in the platitudes of Isocrates and his
school, spreads over much more than a thousand years. And from this
decline the Greek language and literature, unlike the Latin, which has
come to life in new forms and been developed into the great European
languages, never recovered.
This monotony of literature, without merit, without genius and without
character, is a phenomenon which deserves more attention than it has
hitherto received; it is a phenomenon unique in the literary history
of the world. How could there have been so much cultivation, so much
diligence in writing, and so little mind or real creative power? Why
did a thousand years invent nothing better than Sibylline books,
Orphic poems, Byzantine imitations of classical histories, Christian
reproductions of Greek plays, novels like the silly and obscene romances
of Longus and Heliodorus, innumerable forged epistles, a great many
epigrams, biographies of the meanest and most meagre description, a sham
philosophy which was the bastard progeny of the union between Hellas
and the East? Only in Plutarch, in Lucian, in Longinus, in the Roman
emperors Marcus Aurelius and Julian, in some of the Christian fathers
are there any traces of good sense or originality, or any power of
arousing the interest of later ages. And when new books ceased to be
written, why did hosts of grammarians and interpreters flock in, who
never attain to any sound notion either of grammar or interpretation?
Why did the physical sciences never arrive at any true knowledge or make
any real progress? Why did poetry droop and languish? Why did history
degenerate into fable? Why did words lose their power of expression?
Why were ages of external greatness and magnificence attended by all the
signs of decay in the human mind which are possible?
To these questions many answers may be given, which if not the true
causes, are at least to be reckoned among the symptoms of the decline.
There is the want of method in physical science, the want of criticism
in history, the want of simplicity or delicacy in poetry, the want of
political freedom, which is the true atmosphere of public speaking, in
oratory. The ways of life were luxurious and commonplace. Philosophy had
become extravagant, eclectic, abstract, devoid of any real content. At
length it ceased to exist. It had spread words like plaster over the
whole field of knowledge. It had grown ascetic on one side, mystical
on the other. Neither of these tendencies was favourable to literature.
There was no sense of beauty either in language or in art. The Greek
world became vacant, barbaric, oriental. No one had anything new to say,
or any conviction of truth. The age had no remembrance of the past, no
power of understanding what other ages thought and felt. The Catholic
faith had degenerated into dogma and controversy. For more than
a thousand years not a single writer of first-rate, or even of
second-rate, reputation has a place in the innumerable rolls of Greek
literature.
If we seek to go deeper, we can still only describe the outward nature
of the clouds or darkness which were spread over the heavens during so
many ages without relief or light. We may say that this, like several
other long periods in the history of the human race, was destitute,
or deprived of the moral qualities which are the root of literary
excellence. It had no life or aspiration, no national or political
force, no desire for consistency, no love of knowledge for its own sake.
It did not attempt to pierce the mists which surrounded it. It did not
propose to itself to go forward and scale the heights of knowledge, but
to go backwards and seek at the beginning what can only be found towards
the end. It was lost in doubt and ignorance. It rested upon tradition
and authority. It had none of the higher play of fancy which creates
poetry; and where there is no true poetry, neither can there be any
good prose. It had no great characters, and therefore it had no great
writers. It was incapable of distinguishing between words and things. It
was so hopelessly below the ancient standard of classical Greek art and
literature that it had no power of understanding or of valuing them. It
is doubtful whether any Greek author was justly appreciated in antiquity
except by his own contemporaries; and this neglect of the great authors
of the past led to the disappearance of the larger part of them, while
the Greek fathers were mostly preserved. There is no reason to suppose
that, in the century before the taking of Constantinople, much more was
in existence than the scholars of the Renaissance carried away with them
to Italy.
The character of Greek literature sank lower as time went on. It
consisted more and more of compilations, of scholia, of extracts, of
commentaries, forgeries, imitations. The commentator or interpreter had
no conception of his author as a whole, and very little of the context
of any passage which he was explaining. The least things were preferred
by him to the greatest. The question of a reading, or a grammatical
form, or an accent, or the uses of a word, took the place of the aim or
subject of the book. He had no sense of the beauties of an author, and
very little light is thrown by him on real difficulties. He interprets
past ages by his own. The greatest classical writers are the least
appreciated by him. This seems to be the reason why so many of them have
perished, why the lyric poets have almost wholly disappeared; why, out
of the eighty or ninety tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, only seven
of each had been preserved.
Such an age of sciolism and scholasticism may possibly once more get
the better of the literary world. There are those who prophesy that the
signs of such a day are again appearing among us, and that at the end
of the present century no writer of the first class will be still alive.
They think that the Muse of Literature may transfer herself to other
countries less dried up or worn out than our own. They seem to see the
withering effect of criticism on original genius. No one can doubt that
such a decay or decline of literature and of art seriously affects
the manners and character of a nation. It takes away half the joys and
refinements of life; it increases its dulness and grossness. Hence it
becomes a matter of great interest to consider how, if at all, such a
degeneracy may be averted. Is there any elixir which can restore life
and youth to the literature of a nation, or at any rate which can
prevent it becoming unmanned and enfeebled?
First there is the progress of education. It is possible, and even
probable, that the extension of the means of knowledge over a wider
area and to persons living under new conditions may lead to many new
combinations of thought and language. But, as yet, experience does
not favour the realization of such a hope or promise. It may be truly
answered that at present the training of teachers and the methods of
education are very imperfect, and therefore that we cannot judge of the
future by the present. When more of our youth are trained in the best
literatures, and in the best parts of them, their minds may be expected
to have a larger growth. They will have more interests, more thoughts,
more material for conversation; they will have a higher standard and
begin to think for themselves. The number of persons who will have the
opportunity of receiving the highest education through the cheap press,
and by the help of high schools and colleges, may increase tenfold. It
is likely that in every thousand persons there is at least one who is
far above the average in natural capacity, but the seed which is in him
dies for want of cultivation. It has never had any stimulus to grow,
or any field in which to blossom and produce fruit. Here is a great
reservoir or treasure-house of human intelligence out of which new
waters may flow and cover the earth. If at any time the great men of
the world should die out, and originality or genius appear to suffer
a partial eclipse, there is a boundless hope in the multitude of
intelligences for future generations. They may bring gifts to men such
as the world has never received before. They may begin at a higher point
and yet take with them all the results of the past. The co-operation of
many may have effects not less striking, though different in character
from those which the creative genius of a single man, such as Bacon or
Newton, formerly produced. There is also great hope to be derived, not
merely from the extension of education over a wider area, but from the
continuance of it during many generations. Educated parents will have
children fit to receive education; and these again will grow up under
circumstances far more favourable to the growth of intelligence than any
which have hitherto existed in our own or in former ages.
Even if we were to suppose no more men of genius to be produced, the
great writers of ancient or of modern times will remain to furnish
abundant materials of education to the coming generation. Now that
every nation holds communication with every other, we may truly say in
a fuller sense than formerly that 'the thoughts of men are widened
with the process of the suns.' They will not be 'cribbed, cabined, and
confined' within a province or an island. The East will provide elements
of culture to the West as well as the West to the East. The religions
and literatures of the world will be open books, which he who wills may
read. The human race may not be always ground down by bodily toil, but
may have greater leisure for the improvement of the mind. The increasing
sense of the greatness and infinity of nature will tend to awaken in men
larger and more liberal thoughts. The love of mankind may be the source
of a greater development of literature than nationality has ever been.
There may be a greater freedom from prejudice and party; we may better
understand the whereabouts of truth, and therefore there may be more
success and fewer failures in the search for it. Lastly, in the coming
ages we shall carry with us the recollection of the past, in which
are necessarily contained many seeds of revival and renaissance in the
future. So far is the world from becoming exhausted, so groundless is
the fear that literature will ever die out.